


i know no greater pleasure

by defireryttere



Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: Drunk Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, basically they make dumb decisions bc of alcohol, but it's not all bad, trust me - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24043696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defireryttere/pseuds/defireryttere
Summary: Axl takes a risk. Slash goes along with it.
Relationships: Axl Rose/Slash | Saul Hudson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 51





	i know no greater pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> not intended to represent the real people's relationship, obviously. i do not own guns n roses. obviously

Push. A big bottle of Jack, only a quarter of the way full, has found it's way into Axl's hand.  
He recognizes it as the one that's been floating around between the celebrating portion of his bandmates. Duff, Steven, and, Slash–the latter two had played with him briefly in '84, a year or so earlier, when he was still lead vocalist for Hollywood Rose–all of whom were buzzing with adrenline the second they'd left the stage, an hour or so ago.  
Slash and Steven have moved on to mindlessly draping themselves across each other, like a couple of bear cubs, on Steven's messy hotel bed. Axl thinks they're nursing a different type of buzz now.

Pull. He finds himself downing the rest of it despite it not being his particular poison, relishing the burn in his chest before it has the chance to become unpleasant.  
His skin is still hot with exertion from running wild across the stage during the show. Their first show all together; the official Guns N' Roses lineup. The bar and it's vaguely unenthusiastic patrons left much to be desired, but Axl can't complain. The money they had earned is enough for a night or two of drinking. 

The slug of whiskey is far from his first drink of the night, doesn't make much of a difference in regards to his intoxication level, but as he passes the bottle back off to Duff and notices Slash's dark, kohl-rimmed eyes following the empty glass– he's suddenly feeling it's weight in his gut. 

You'd have to be sightless to not see the guitarist's physical appeal; his ever-growing cloud of curls–which had been short when Axl first met him–and big angular eyes that draw people in even while partly obscured by said curls. That fucking mouth.. Even the homosexual-damning depictions of God himself would be forced to agree.

But that's just Axl's opinion.  
As well as his excuse.

His eyes narrow, gnawing at the dark curls spanned out across Steven's shoulder, a straight line of pure energy between them that makes the air feel like static. Duff has reappeared at his side with another bottle and Axl's body is triggered into moving on it's own, devising it's own little plan – he snatches it out of Duff's hand, ignoring the boy's scandalized “what the fuck”, and travels to the foot of the bed that Slash and his dumb fucking sexuality-warping face are currently occupying. As well as Steven, but he barely even twitches when Axl hops up onto the foot of the bed, doesn't react when Slash disentangles their limbs to sit up. He's out for the night.

Axl tips the offering in Slash's direction, mouth a smirk, eyes a challenge. 

“Maybe the beast himself would like to join me in getting completely shit-faced? My treat.”

“What? No, that shit was MY treat,” Duff tries to say, but Axl very pointedly ignores him as Slash takes the bottle from his hand, accidentally causing skin-to-skin contact that is, obviously, normal but feels almost inexplicably inappropriate. It doesn't linger. Axl finds himself wishing it had. 

“Okay.” 

For a second, they just look at each other. The air feels thick; Axl feels like he might be imagining things, but for a second, Slash seems to be returning his curiosity. 

“Alright, kids, playtime's over. My turn.”

Duff's voice comes from his left just before the bassist intercepts the pass, and crawls awkwardly across the sheets to sit beside Slash with his prize. Long legs are thrown over a sleeping Steven's back. Still, he does not budge.

Slash's demeanor shifts visibly; Axl can make out a rise in enthusiasm.  
He seems to have taken to Duff better than with him and Izzy, which is understandable, but.  
It still has Axl bristling, hot under his skin for some reason.

What does Duff have on Axl other than a couple inches?  
In height, of course–where the fuck has his mind gone? 

“Joining the squadron, party animal Mckagan?” Slash laughs boyishly, taking the bottle from Duff's hands. Axl is stuck on the sound for a second, unable to tear himself away. It has to be the alcohol. “Started to think we'd never be graced with your presence.”

Duff reaches one arm across Slash's front to grab the lighter from the nightstand beside him, laughing along past the unlit cigarette between his lips. There's that feeling again. “Had no choice. It's my duty to make sure you lame fucks can find the line between partying and wreaking complete havoc. You're lost without me.” 

Slash makes a noise of agreement.  
His hand finds the newly lit cigarette directly after Duff's taken a drag, bumming it straight from his mouth. “I can't argue with that.”

Axl feels an almost nauseating sense of relief when the bottle is passed back to him, when Slash's attention is finally forced back to him. He doesn't like the intensity of it at all.  
Again: It fucking has to be the alcohol.

“I think I had shit pretty under control,” he says now that he has the figurative mic, keeping his voice level, almost aggressively so. Duff shrinks under his tone. It's just friendly enough to lure someone in, with an edge that promises the unpredictable. Even Slash seems to wilt a little.

“I know, Ax. Just kidding around, anyways.”

“Aren't we all?” He splays his arms out in the air, one hand still clutched around the neck of the bottle; pointer, middle, thumb. Ring and pinky add to his gesture. 

Duff nods, borderline obediently.  
They all already know how Axl can be. Hair-trigger temper, an affinity for violence to back it up. He doesn't ever seriously hit any of them, but none of them doubt that he would if pushed to it. 

“Pass it, Rose,” Slash cuts through the tension, holding out an expectant hand to receive the bottle that Axl had accidentally begun hoarding. Right.  
Green eyes, sharp as a needle, lead a trail up from the outstretched hand, to a sweat-sheened throat, and finally, the unobstructed lower half of the guitarist's face. 

What exactly is he trying to do here? 

Professional interest is tangible. Personal interest is definite. 

But what does that lead to? He's thought too far ahead, skipped over the part where he was supposed to wonder; would Slash understand?  
He's seen Slash with plenty of woman, damn near flawless ones at that, but he also knows that he's probably perceived in the exact same light.  
The thing is–Axl hasn't even figured out what this little fixation means for himself. A lapse in judgement perhaps?  
If he's experiencing these urges out of the blue, shouldn't that mean that Slash is just as capable of it? They're both straight. He knows they are. 

He just can't get the image out of his head, of that mouth shaping his name as he–

“Rose?” 

Axl is brought back into reality, like a camera focusing, revealing one important detail; Slash looks really fucking confused.  
He's embarrassingly quick to give Slash what he wants.

Except, this time, when their fingers graze– it feels right.

“My bad,” he admits, a rarity, and Duff's head shoots up to face him, features betraying surprise even beneath the chunky black shades he's wearing. Axl, mercifully, opts to ignore it.  
He's just glad Duff's staying quiet; he doesn't need it being shouted to the rooftops that he's typically too stubborn to even admit when he's in the wrong. It doesn't look good on anyone.

“Nah,” Slash says, pauses to take a swig, and continues with a cocked grin, “nobody's bad, man. Can't be blamed for the effects of alcohol.”

The bottle reaches Duff again, but Slash's eyes stay on Axl's. It's exhilarating contact; Slash's pupils are blown, and Axl is sure they hadn't been like that before.  
Slash leans in just enough for Axl to notice, and makes very deliberate eye contact.

“Makes you do things you wouldn't normally do.”

Axl becomes acutely aware of three things in that moment. 

One; apparently his body can experience need, can yearn for something, without his brain ever even experiencing the need in it's entirety. Like autopilot deciding the destination rather than the actual pilot, while the actual pilot has half a fucking clue what's going on.

Two; he needs Slash. Or, more accurately – he needs every ounce of Slash's attention on him. Desperately. He can't explain it because he doesn't want to think too deeply about it.  
It's a dangerous conclusion to be drawn. 

And three? He has a chance.

“You should sleep in my room tonight. Iz can take your spot in here.”

Inwardly, he's already regretting the lack of subtlety. Not that bluntness isn't already a regularity with him, but–it's too sloppy. Leaves too much room for suspicion on Duff's end.  
If he's going to end up doing anything about his newfound urges, he doesn't want a witness.  
Though the precise idea of what's going to happen, where this moment of spontaneity could lead, it isn't clear, even to him. 

Outwardly, he's playing it casual while he figures it out.

“Yeah?” Comes Slash's response, clipped high at the end. Questioning. Not the type that really begs a serious answer, of course. He'd heard him clearly. “If that's what you want, Rose, sure.”

“It is, man, otherwise I wouldn't have said it.”

“Okay.”

–

Duff is left, drunk and disheveled, in the same spot on Steven's bed when they finish the bottle. Context tells them he might just end up passing out there.  
That leaves Duff's open bed for Izzy; they couldn't exactly afford the nicest hotels yet, so it was two shitty rooms, with two shitty beds each.  
Slash had–probably out of obligation, more than anything, being the odd one out–volunteered to either set up camp on the ground, or share a bed. Steven, unsurprisingly, was quick to open his bed up. That had been hours ago. 

Now, Axl needs those plans to change. The more things begin to come together, puzzle piece-like clarity, he finds that he isn't nervous. It's more along the lines of.. Excitement. 

He leads a tipsy Slash, who stumbles only a little, down the hall to his and Izzy's room. It's almost funny; would be funny if Axl wasn't in a similar boat.

“Pack your shit,” Axl says, upon pushing the door open and spotting Izzy's skinny frame hunched over the nightstand.  
His voice houses no hostility, though the alcohol has him slurring a little. Izzy is, understandably, lost.  
“Plans changed. Me an' Slasher are staying in here. Mckagan's bed is open.”

“Why–? Actually, fuck it. Fine.”

Izzy's never been big on making things more strenuous for himself, and that includes picking losing fights with forces that were not known to budge.  
Axl often finds himself thinking that Izzy's got the presence of a very tired mother nowadays.  
He looks almost like one, bustling around the room and collecting his stuff, discarded articles of clothing–Axl notices belatedly that there's a lot of pale torso revealed–and other miscellaneous items.

“You can stay and hang if you ain't planning on sleeping yet, Stradlin,” Axl offers, sniffing disinterestedly just for good measure. Stormy eyes fall on him. They're very tired. Axl hopes he makes the right decision, here, for all of their sake.

“I'm pretty tired, actually, but thanks.”

Axl's response to that is nothing more than a non-committal grunt. He knows his attitude is a bit cold and unfair, but he's really trying to move his plan along. He'll apologize to Izzy later. Maybe. Probably not, but the thought is what really counts, right?

“I call this side, then,” Slash's voice pulls his attention back, eyes narrowing as they watch Slash get one knee up on the bed closest to the window, tone and actions leaving no room for debate – and that's exactly what makes Axl want to fight for it.

“That fuckin' so?”

He swoops in and gets a hand, too rough, on the back of Slash's neck and shoves him down the rest of the way. His grunt of shock lines up with the click of Izzy finally leaving the room. 

“Yeah, it is fuckin' so,” Slash snaps back once he's recovered, the exact reaction Axl had been aiming for. He gets a good grip on the arm that had pushed him down just as it begins to pull away.

He's stronger than he looks; Axl is toppled over easily enough, and all he sees is a blur of dark curls as Slash descends on him, shoves a knee against his stomach to hold him down.  
The grip on his arm is still firm, hadn't loosened up once since he'd gotten the leverage.  
Axl, now with only one free arm, is at a bit of a disadvantage. 

He shifts, turns his torso until Slash's knee is dislodged, watches it slip onto the mattress.  
Slash goes with the movement so he can keep Axl pinned, and then–  
Axl pretends to surrender, lets Slash pin him there, blue jean clad thighs tucked up on either side of Axl's waist, hands keeping Axl's arms above his head. 

“Damn. That was over quickly.”  
Slash doesn't sound the least bit winded, just teasing. Axl can hear the double entendre.  
His adrenaline is soaring, and it's not entirely from the fight.  
Veins pumping, he takes Slash's moment of presumed victory as an opportunity to heave him off while his guard is down, basks in his startled squawk as he rolls to a stop facedown on the bed.  
Slash is given zero time to recover; a fiery ball of energy is pressing weight down across his back before he can even lift his head up fully.  
Slash can feel a warm chest against his shoulder blades and silky strands of hair tickling his neck, as well as the warmth of Axl's mouth right next to his ear.

“Oh, I promise I'm not usually that quick.”

Axl can feel Slash's body react, a little tremble that he hopes is of the anticipatory sort. 

“Want me to show you?” 

To avoid the risk of his message somehow getting misconstrued this far in, which would be catastrophic and possibly career ruining, he shifts his hips until he's sure Slash can feel exactly what he means–and yeah, Slash absolutely can feel it, right up against the swell of his ass.  
He makes a rather embarrassing noise and Axl eats it right up. 

“Fuck,” is the only response Slash can give. His body gives a clearer response though; Axl can feel his hips moving, pressing back against his own. It sparks a fire in his chest. 

He sits up and promptly begins manhandling the other boy, ignoring his noises of complaint as turns him over onto his back so he can press between his legs.  
His hands find the place they usually do when he's with a woman, gliding up Slash's thighs until they come to rest on his hips. He squeezes, just a little, and Slash bucks against his hold.

“Good?”

“Not while you're just sitting there, man. Do something or let me go to bed.”

And there's the hitch; Axl has never taken well to being told what to do.  
He has to muffle the rush of a different kind of heat simmering under his skin alongside his arousal, aware that blowing up and being an asshole would only cost him a night's lay–he doesn't want that, even if said lay is an ungrateful little fuck–and that's the biggest reason for his smile remaining neutral, if not a pinch twisted. He's definitely rougher than he would've been, though, as he trails a hand along Slash's flat stomach beneath his thin t-shirt, nails raising pink welts as they go. “You got it.”

His t-shirt is so thin, in fact, that rather than just pulling it over Slash's head like a normal person–Axl decides to grip the fabric in his hands, and shred it like a piece of fucking paper, revealing an expanse of tan skin that he wants to put his mouth all over, despite the glaring absence of tits.

“Hey! I liked that shirt, asshole!”

Axl straight up ignores him this time around, leaning down to latch onto Slash's exposed collarbone with teeth and lips, which drowns out his irritation and drags a noise out of him that makes Axl's pulse skyrocket even further. He eases closer into the space between their guitarist's legs, pressing their aching dicks together through two layers of denim and just one layer of cotton, rocking into Slash like that until he cries out again.  
If he remembers anything tomorrow, he's gonna have a hell of a crisis about the noises being produced here. 

Axl doesn't mind it, though. In fact, he's pleased with the symphony he's found himself leading, though he's still only following muscle memory–his mouth seeks out Slash's nipple, and the result isn't really all that different from what he gets with his usual partners; Slash arches at the waist and swears into the silence of the room, thighs clamping against Axl's hips tight enough that Axl can feel them twitching. 

It loses it's familiarity when Slash decides to open his big mouth.

“What the hell, man, I'm.. I'm not a fuckin' chick, dude, why are you–” Axl uses a bit of teeth, then, lips pulling up at one corner, “–fuck, oh shit–”

Axl feels calloused fingertips brush his cheekbone before they sink into his hair, holding him there despite Slash's initial displeased front. He seeks out Slash's other hand and finds it crawling between them, towards his own dick. Axl bats it right off it's course and Slash's head snaps up, glaring through bleary eyes. “The fuck?”

“I'm in control.”

“This isn't the studio, prettyboy, you aren't in control of shit here.” 

“Sure feels like I am,” Axl muses, pointedly ignoring the nickname, as he rocks into Slash once to remind him of just what position he's in. As if to further prove his point, Slash greedily tries to follow when he pulls back again.

The situation is already teetering precariously, and Axl knows any further conflict might drive Slash into the joined bathroom to whack off alone, so he finally reaches down between them and flicks Slash's button open in one easy movement.

“C'mon, Slasher, let me.” 

“I've basically been fuckin' begging you to for, like, the past twenty minutes, man, so–”

Axl's hand finds heated flesh as soon as the zipper is out of the way, a hard and completely unfamiliar dick bouncing up eagerly into the curl of his fingers. He gives it one, two quick strokes, and Slash's snark cuts off completely. 

“Begging, huh? Pretty unconvincing, if you ask me,” Axl says, breathes out in a deep, challenging tone, adjusting to the angle so he can set a quicker rhythm, “I think you can do better.” 

Equally as quickly as he'd upped the pace, he slows it down, until he's barely moving his hand. Slash groans and it's impossible to differentiate frustration and arousal. 

“C'mon, Rose, come the fuck on, don't do this to me– I'm gonna pass out, dude.”

“Do I have your consent to continue if you do?” 

His crude little joke earns him a sour look and a quick but forceless jab to the collarbone. 

“No, fuckhead, just get me off.”

“Beg for it.”

“No.”

“Yes.” 

“Fuck this, and fuck you.”

Slash seems content to end the conversation with that, reaching down once again to take his own dick in hand; he gets about three good tugs in before the heat is being yanked from him yet again. His noise of complaint borders on angry, and rings a bit too loudly for Axl's liking.  
Before Slash can get a word in, Axl clasps a hand over his mouth, at the same time taking over the grip on Slash's poor, weeping dick. He feels the vibration of a moan against his palm. 

“I changed my mind,” he lowers his voice to a whisper, leaning in close to Slash's face, “keep your fuckin' mouth shut. Can you do that?”

Slash simply moans again, weakly, and Axl presses a quick kiss to his fingers, where he assumes Slash's lips are. He knows he can feel the pressure of it.

And with that, he's finally putting in the effort to actually get his partner off. Quick, full strokes that wring a variety of noises from Slash, careless noises that rise in volume until they warrant a hand over his mouth again. He doesn't fight it.  
One of his hands comes up to grasp at Axl's wrist, but doesn't make an effort to remove it; just holds onto it, like he's trying to ground himself.  
His other hand dangles uselessly, arm bent at the elbow where it's resting against the mattress, level with his shoulder.  
Axl peeks up and finds the view to be disappointing; nearly all of Slash's face is obscured, what with the hand covering the lower half of his face and the heap of curls that hide his eyes. 

He takes a risk, then, and removes his hand from Slash's now slightly spit-slick mouth. He can't even find it in himself to be grossed out by the traces of saliva that span his palm.  
Most of it transfers to Slash's skin when Axl plants said hand against his hip, pinning him down.

“I'm doing you a favor, Hudson, you better be ready to repay it.”

He emphasizes his statement by upping the pace, trailing precum along until the slide is easy, smooth.  
Slash pushes into his hold, bucking and writhing, to no avail; Axl's hand stays where it is, and in turn, so does Slash.  
Slash's hand, the one that had held onto Axl's wrist before, flies to muffle the moans he can't stop, knuckles pressed between his teeth. 

Axl can hear his breathing getting harsher, huffing and panting into his own skin, heavy indication of impending release.  
He doesn't let up even a little bit, keeps on going until Slash begins to shoot over his fingers, and then continues to wring the orgasm out of him.  
He's oversensitive, enough to bat weakly at Axl's hand a couple times, but Axl still doesn't show any mercy until the last drop dribbles out and Slash slumps against the bed, completely and utterly spent.  
He promptly smears the mess across Slash's stomach, earning him a breathless insult that he can't decipher. 

Now that he's got that out of the way, he can finally focus on himself–his cock is hard enough to cut diamonds, at this point.  
Slash is clearly too out of it to return the gesture, probably couldn't even keep a rhythm going, so Axl takes it into his own hands yet again. He has a pretty tempting idea, anyway. 

He tugs the other boy's jeans down to his knees, and unceremoniously shoves his legs to the the side, twisting Slash's body at the waist. 

“Hey– what the hell are you–”

“You owe me,” Axl cuts in, easing his middle and ring fingers into the tight space between Slash's thighs, mock-fucking them to let him know exactly what's in store. A humiliated grunt rises in Slash's throat, but that's as far as his protest goes.  
He just turns his face into the crook of his elbow, and Axl can tell it's to hide his shame. Axl is just fucked up enough to admit that his embarrassment just adds to the arousal factor.

“Weird as hell, but– whatever, just hurry up and do it.”

“Don't you remember what I told you earlier, Slasher? I ain't that quick.”

He grins before spitting into his palm, using it to slick up his erection; it twitches eagerly in his hold, and he hisses at the intensity of the relief, however short-lived.  
Luckily, his dick goes from one source of heat to another, sliding between the soft skin of his bandmate's thighs like it's meant to be there. 

“Oh,” Slash croaks, daring to lift his head and sneak a glance down, where he catches the very tip of Axl's cock peeking through on an inward thrust. The sight, the feeling, it's somehow far dirtier than anything else they've done so far, and as degrading as it feels–Slash can't help but to feel.. Desired. It's not half bad. 

That doesn't mean he's going to give in to Axl's twisted whims and show just how much it's affecting him, though. He's still got a bit too much pride for that, even while intoxicated. 

Axl notices him looking and pieces it together himself.  
He huddles in even closer, kneeling and shoving forward with his knees until Slash feels cramped, curled up beneath him.

“You like it,” he says, a statement rather than a question. Slash shakes his head a couple times before returning to hiding his face against his arm. Axl looks down and, just as he expected, finds evidence that goes against Slash's response; he's half hard again already.  
Axl shifts until his thrusts start to bring his cock into contact with Slash's taint, tip trailing along it on the instroke, and a gurgled noise not unlike a whine graces his ears. Slash may still be a bit... Sensitive.

“I thought you might.”

It goes on like that for a while, Axl thrusting into Slash at an angle that works for both of them, whispering filthy shit while Slash fights to regain enough coherent thought to talk back. 

Eventually Slash pulls back from his arm, tilting his torso a bit further onto his back and moaning out towards the ceiling. The arm he'd been hiding against splays out over his face, pushing sweaty, clingy curls off of his forehead.  
His eyes are closed, lips parted, he makes such a pretty picture that Axl just wants to frame it. 

A slightly more forceful thrust has Slash's free hand flying to his now fully erect cock, moving along it in short but quick strokes. Axl lets him do his thing this time around, more focused on the burn pulsing throughout his own body; he didn't realize just how wound up he had become.  
Still, he's more than satisfied with how things have ended up, with how fucking good Slash's thighs feel–he's almost worried about not being able to keep his word. His stomach is knotting up, flooding with heat far too fast. 

It won't be a problem, he decides, as long as Slash somehow has his second orgasm first. He's going to have to put a bit more work in, then.  
He reaches his free hand down, the one not clamped down on the back of Slash's knees to keep his legs up, and closes his fingers over Slash's, taking control of his pace without removing his hand.  
Slash bucks into the tunnel of their hands and the movement tears a noise out of Axl that he hopes, for Slash's sake, is never talked about again. 

“Fuck, yes,” Axl huffs out, head hanging and trailing red strands over Slash's thigh and hip. He thrusts just that little bit faster, hard enough that it produces the telling noise of skin hitting skin. 

“Ax, oh shit, ohh shit, I'm–”  
His voice periodically jerks higher from the force of Axl's hips hitting his body, but Axl can still make out the meaning of his words. He's getting close again already.  
Axl takes his hand off of Slash's and curls four fingers into the crease of his hip, uses that grip to tug him back, make him meet his thrusts. 

Slash's hand is a blur on his cock, frantic and uneven but seemingly getting the job done. He doesn't appear to notice the sudden absence of Axl's palm over his knuckles, too far gone to pick up on anything other than the heat of rising release. 

That's more than okay with Axl, though; he's been forcing his own orgasm down for a hot minute, doing his best to make sure Slash comes first.  
The second that actually happens–the second Slash spurts weakly onto the hotel bedspread, moaning in a way that sounds vaguely pained–it hits Axl like a train.  
It happens when he's mid-thrust, coats Slash's inner thighs as well as the rest of them when Axl pulls back, gets a hand on himself to finish. 

If Slash wasn't a blink away from passing out, he probably would've expressed his disgust for Axl's actions, complain about the nasty, sticky feeling of drying jizz. Axl even almost feels bad.  
It grows the longer he looks at Slash's spent, ruined form. The fucker fell asleep, covered in someone else's cum. He couldn't possibly look more fucked out.  
Axl can't just leave him like that–it's a principal.  
He grabs one of the few scattered shreds that remain of Slash's t-shirt, and in a few long and only slightly awkward movements, wipes up the sticky mess. He's on the border of being gentle to avoid waking Slash and getting caught, and trying not to have the action feel so intimate.  
But it still does. 

Once he's done, he nudges Slash awake roughly and fights to lift his own heavy limbs until he's on his feet. 

“Get up. You can't sleep like that,” he says, tone pushing for carelessness, as he yanks his briefs up and kicks his jeans the rests of the way off. Slash just squints at him through glassy, tired eyes.  
Axl huffs out a frustrated breath through his nose, and moves in to get a hand on Slash's elbow, yanks him to his feet.  
Slash startles visibly, tries to balance on weak, shaky legs. Axl almost wants to laugh at the sight of him, looking all disoriented with his jeans around his knees. Instead, he just gives Slash's cheek a couple quick wake up taps. 

“Pull up your damn pants, Casanova.”

Slash frowns at him, looks down, and then looks back up at Axl with wide eyes and ruddy cheeks. His hands move as fast as he can get them to, but they shake as he tugs his jeans up. He can barely manage the zipper; doesn't even bother with the button. 

Brown eyes, tinged with uncertainty, peek at him through loose curls.  
“...Thanks.”

It almost comes across as gratitude for Axl helping him compose himself, but Axl knows what he really means.

“Don't mention it,” he returns, with a pointed little stare that only lasts a second, “also, avoid the jizz stains when you pass out again. Night.” 

And with that, Axl heads over to his own bed, and conks out the second his body hits the mattress.

**Author's Note:**

> i liked this when i started but now i hate it. enjoy


End file.
